Hear this, as I take up for you a
dirge, O my people
You
have fallen, You will not rise again—
Rural
America, town of Aberdeen.
She
lies neglected on her land, there is none to raise her up.
The
port city that was once thousands strong, full of ships and timber and fish
Has
only hundreds left, with tent cities on her banks;
The
one that had a thousand workers
Has
only tens of unemployed left.
Thus
says the Lord to the town of Aberdeen,
Seek for
hope, that you may live.
But
do not resort to methamphetamines
Or
come to crack houses
Nor
place yourselves at the mercy of drug lords
For the
DEA will certainly take you captive
And
the poor will come to jail.
Seek
for hope, that you may live
Or the
wind will pass over and you will be no more
It
will blow over a desolate ruin.
Because
of those who turned justice into profit
when
they exploited workers to fell the giant forests
And then
cast mercy from the earth
when
they left them to starve when the forests were gone.
The
one who made the wind and clouds
And
sends the sun to restore the felled forests
Who
deepens the shadows as new trees revive the land
Who
calls the waves on the rocky shore
And
crashes them on the rocks
The
Lord is the one.
Who
destroys the oppressor and the strong
So
that destruction reaches the great cities who have extracted your wealth.
They
hate the worker who speaks for his rights
They
mock the simplicity of his words.
Therefore
because they accumulate land and houses throughout the town
And
impose heavy rent on the poor or leave them empty
Though
they have beautiful condos and vacation rentals
They
will not stay in them
They
have preserved their vacation parks and well-kept forests
But
they will not walk in them.
For I
know their transgressions are many and their sins are great,
They
who profited off of the labor of your forest workers
But
walk past them now as they beg in the streets.
At a
time like this, we can only keep silent, for it is an evil time.
Seek
out the impoverished worker and not your luxury, that you may live
Then
the Lord will be with you as you ask.
Hate
neglect, love action
And
establish justice for the small rural towns.
Perhaps
the Lord may be gracious to the remnant that is left.
Therefore,
thus says the Lord,
There
is weeping in the city parks and in Wal-Mart parking lots,
and in the streets people cry; “We are
screwed.”
The
farmer whose land lies fallow is called to mourning
And
the migrant worker who waits on the corner is called to lament.
And
in the forests and tree farms there is wailing
For
the work that sustained the community is at an end.
Alas,
you who are waiting for the end times
For
what purpose will the world end?
I
hate, I reject your supercilious services
Nor
do I delight in you sumptuous liturgies said within closed doors
Even
though you offer up prayers and collects
I
will not accept them
And I
will not even look at the solemn processions of your services.
Take
away from me the noise of your fancy songs
I do
not care about the music of your thousand dollar organs.
Let
justice come down to my people
Let
mercy be found for my small towns.
In a seminary class last year, I was asked to rewrite a section of Amos for the audience of my choice. I wrote about the land and people where I come from, wondering what the words of the biblical prophets might be to them. This piece captures my love and sorrow for the places so close to my heart.
